Sacrifice
by Brit-bound
Summary: Real love demands more than emotion. Sometimes, it calls for sacrifice. In this missing chapter from Tom and Ellen's story, the magnitude of that sacrifice is esplored. It is not an easy story to read.
1. Chapter 1

_Ken Follett in his book and John Pielmeier in his screen play set Ellen on a collision course with religious authority in Medieval England as part of the storyline in "The Pillars of the Earth."_

_Then they graciously provided an escape plan, for the woman who refused to bow to that power, in the persons of Prior Philip and Tom Builder._

_However, what might very well have ended up hostage to the editor's slashing pen or a sacrificial offering on the cutting room floor just might have been the explanation for how Ellen, who fled the ecclesiastical courtroom with her sins compounded, managed to stay close enough to Tom to continue her love affair and yet evade the witch's pyre Waleran planned for her._

_The answer is to be found here, accompanied — in advance — by appreciative acknowledgment of the writers' ultimate ownership of all the characters and major story lines mentioned._

"_Sacrifice" is the title of this "missing" chapter. Action begins on the momentous day King Stephen visits the cathedral in Kingsbridge to check on its progress. While viewing Jack's statue of the congregation's patron saint, the warring king falls into a frothing fit that, quite naturally, stuns all those who have gathered at Kingsbridge — either to help construct the house of worship or engineer its destruction._

_Among the latter is Bishop Waleran._

…

There was advantage to this, Waleran was quite certain as he observed the king's writhing performance at the base of the saint's statue in Kingsbridge. But as he contemplated precisely what it might be, his composure was threatened by the sight of the very woman he had been determined to bind over to eternal flames not so long ago.

Ellen had been fully aware she risked exposure to dangerous elements by leaving her secluded cave and coming to the cathedral site that day, but she was half mad with longing to see Tom, her lover and the guiding force behind the construction. She was also curious in the extreme about her son Jack's absorbing project related to the new church.

With the feel of her lover's firm buttock even yet tingling her hand, the look of astonishment on his face at her effrontery in palming his nether regions so publicly still delighting her memory and the salty tang of his welcoming kisses flavoring her lips, she had dared roam the edge of the crowd to observe the effect of Jack's offering as the king toured Tom's domain.

But when she suddenly encountered Waleran's startled gaze among the visitors, it spoke terror to her very soul. Yet she forced herself to turn calmly away and make her exit with dignity. This despite the fearful thumping of her heart.

At any moment, she expected to hear Waleran shout for guards to "seize the witch." How he would thrill to the opportunity to bind her, gag her, secure her to the post and watch the flames lick at her feet.

He had been happy to see Jack's father die in similar circumstances — until the Frenchman found his voice — and she entertained no hope he wished to spare her a similar fate.

Tom and Prior Philip might not be so successful in rescuing her a second time, she realized as she glided out of his line of vision and then sought to lose herself in the crowd. She headed out of the village and back to her well-hidden cave by a circuitous route — just in case the ecclesiastical had gathered his wits and sent someone after her.

Soon after moonless shadows enveloped the forest that evening, she heard Tom's horse and heedlessly rushed to the entrance of her shelter to welcome him into the light and love she always kept burning for him.

He swept her up in his strong arms and hugged her fiercely, with even more delight than he had greeted her at the cathedral. Their only communication was the message conveyed by their yearning bodies as they fit them together in quick, hard passion against the wall of the cave.

"You're a vixen, you are, woman," Tom laughed down at her later as they lay in languid peace on Ellen's bed. His right arm was bent behind his head, which was pillowed on the cushions she filled with fresh-smelling herbs regularly in hopes that his body would bruise them into releasing their fragrance. His left lay along the length of her warm and slightly love-dewed back as she sprawled half over him in sweet exhaustion. His fingertips reached just to the fullness of her hips and he patted her bottom appreciatively, smiling in the firelight.

"What a cheeky mite you've turned out to be. Sneaking up on a man like that and taking advantage right in front of God and everybody."

No other decent woman in his experience would have dared touch him as she had done so publicly at the cathedral site that morning. The sheer scandal of it had aroused him almost as much as the sight of her beautiful face.

"You didn't seem to mind too much," she grinned, breaking off her contemplation of his lower body and twisting her head around to meet his startling green eyes.

"Didn't mind at all. Just surprised to see it was you with a handful of my backside."

"And who did you expect it to be? One of Philip's saintly flock?" she challenged.

"Quiet, woman," he growled and left off stroking her bottom to issue a quick series of playful smacks instead. "You come close to blasphemy."

Ellen's smile faded suddenly as memory stirred.

"Waleran saw me there."

Tom's heart stuttered.

"Are you sure? How do you know?"

"Of course I'm sure. I saw him at the same time he noticed me. He looked as though he'd run into a ghost," she told him.

He sat up abruptly, forcing her to scramble upright, as well.

"He'll come for you," he frowned. "Ellen, you can't stay here. We have to get you away." And he swung his long legs off the bed, reaching for his clothes and fighting down the panic her words had birthed.

"I won't run any more," she protested stubbornly.

"Then you'll burn. Come. Get your things together. We're leaving."

"And going where? For all you know, he has watchers in the forest already. And besides, I won't go anywhere without you."

He sat silent for a moment, his head bowed and his eyes covered by slightly trembling fingers that had been employed so casually in her pleasure only moments before.

"If you burn, I burn with you. If you go, I go with you. Tell me which it will be," he said finally, turning to look into her eyes.

Ellen sucked in her breath at the enormity of his pledge. "But the cathedral. Your children … Jonathan …"

The tightening of the muscle in his jaw was evident, even through his beard. "Choose," he said quietly. "I already have."

…

In the end, their plan was only an imperfectly partial one; a hasty and mystery-shrouded first step on the road to safety.

Aware that Waleran's henchmen might await them just beyond the door, they settled on the only escape option open to them at the moment. They doused the fire and snuffed the candles, donned their discarded garments and cloaks – mercifully dark and hooded – and groped through the inky blackness to the cave's covered entrance.

Tom's constant prayers included gratitude that there was no moonlight to betray them as they slipped outside and fitted their bodies to the exterior walls of the cave. They edged slowly sideways along the shorter side of the natural structure, moving as silently as possible lest the Bishop's men be waiting somewhere in the shadows to seize them.

The builder had to fight the impulse to utilize his horse for their escape, but there was no way of knowing if they were evading mounted thugs or men on foot or phantoms of their imagination. They could take no chances of alerting anyone or anything in the forest to their movements, however. Ellen must not fall into the churchman's hands.

Which made their temporary destination somewhat bizarre, since Tom was plotting a silent, dark course straight for the church — or what was left of it.

Waleran, he knew, would never expect his witch to seek shelter in the house of God. So it was their only viable haven.

It had the added advantage of being near Prior Philip, and Tom could not leave without telling him why. Any more than he could steal away with Ellen without making provision for his children — all his children — by throwing them on the gentle priest's mercy.

The course he had set in motion filled him with grief for what he was leaving behind; but neither could he bear the thought of Ellen writhing in the flames. His only hope was to trust God to deliver them from Waleran and reunite them all in the not-too-distant future.

…

More than an hour later, two dark shadows emerged from the forest and made their way around the perimeter of the village and to the entrance of the old church's crypt. No one had accosted them on their silent journey through the forest, which probably meant, Tom realized — now that he had had more time to consider it — that Waleran's forces had either not discovered the hideaway yet or else knew exactly where it was but planned to approach it at their leisure and with the sun to light their way.

That opinion was confirmed when he spied a group of revelers on the far side of the cathedral site. Even at a distance, he could hear enough of their conversation to know they were the Bishop's men and they were anticipating action on his behalf come morning.

He eased open the crypt door and pulled Ellen — a blessedly compliant Ellen, for once — inside.

They stood in complete silence for what seemed an eternity, until Tom felt secure in their solitude.

"We need to rest. There is a storage room at the end of this wall. Only Philip and I know where the key is hidden. We'll wait there until he is through with services in the morning and then I have to speak to him."

He felt her stiffen and knew she was preparing to argue, so he pulled her close to him and muffled her protests with a kiss in the thick darkness where they were surrounded by death.

"We need Philip's help. You know he will not betray us to Waleran. He's proven himself," he whispered against her mouth. "Trust me, Ellen, or there is no hope."

She sagged against him, her emotions at war with each other. Relief that someone else was bearing the burden of decision-making struggled with years of self-reliance.

Finally they moved again, cautiously, until Tom felt the rough planking of the door beneath his fingertips. Finding the key hidden nearby was easier than fitting it into the lock, but eventually he had Ellen safely inside the musty and little-used closet. Closing the door gently behind them, he prayed no one would have need of any of the castoffs stored there — at least not for the next few hours, until he could manage to spirit Ellen far away.

Just before matins, they sank to the cold stone floor together and fell into a twilight sleep, guarded just outside their hiding place by the ancient skulls of those too poor or too unknown to qualify for a marked grave site.

…


	2. Chapter 2

Come the new day, the bishop humbled himself to the leadership of Prior Philip at morning prayers and then made his way to the tavern where he knew he would find his guards sleeping off the effects of the previous evening.

Shaking their leader awake, he tersely repeated the plans he had outlined the night before.

"I must speak with the Prior, but as soon as I have given him instructions, I will send word to you. I am certain he knows where the witch hides herself. He will provide a guide and you will accompany that fellow. Bind her well and don't let her out of your sight — or anyone or anything else near her. There is no way to know what shape her demon helpers may employ on her behalf. Get her back here and send word to me when you have her on her knees in front of the altar."

He turned swiftly, his black robes swirling around him, and made his way to Philip's rooms, completely unaware that his quarry was even then huddled — hungry and weary and filled with fear she would not confess — in the frigid gray air of the temporary church's storeroom.

…

The Bishop's first inclination, as soon as he had recovered his wits from the shock of seeing the witch, had been to call an ecclesiastical court immediately, present the evidence of witchcraft he had been prepared to offer previously and impose and carry out the sentence of death without delay.

However, upon reflection, he realized he had no method to command Ellen's silence before death claimed her. Nothing the witch might say in those last terrible moments would be welcome news to King Stephen, who would then surely sacrifice Waleran to deflect attention from the advantage he had gained through the death of King Henry's son and heir.

Further complicating the situation was the fact that Stephen might not be able to hold on to his crown much longer — particularly if the events of this day were an indication of the way the wind was blowing. And if Maude gained the ascendancy and heard a whisper of the Bishop's role in the death of her brother, he wasn't sure even God could protect him.

No, he couldn't risk an accusation in any form from Ellen. But he could remind her of his power. He could guarantee she comprehended and feared his displeasure should she threaten his position in any way. And he could do it all under cover of righteously punishing her disgraceful behavior and sinful assault on his person in that earlier trial.

Ellen was clever — for a woman. And in suffering for her sins, she would understand that the one who dictated the terms of her punishment held the power to unleash far worse on her if she were so foolish as to distress him further.

It was not the dénouement the Bishop would have preferred, but it would have to do until he could arrange something less public and more permanent.

…

Prior Philip listened with an expressionless visage as Waleran explained that he had come face to face with Ellen — the woman some had been willing to point to as a witch not long before — during King Stephen's historic visit on the day just past.

The humble priest forebore to mention that the Bishop had proven himself eager to be her chief — and, as it turned out, sole — accuser at the time. If he had learned nothing else in his dealings with the ecclesiastical, it was to listen much and speak little.

"I was shocked beyond words to see her there," Waleran said, striding up and down with weighty steps in Prior Philip's working quarters. "As would you have been, had you known of her presence," he added and shot a meaningful glance at the priest.

Philip kept his eyes trained on the crucifix just above the prie dieu on the far side of the room.

It would be no lie to say he was completely unaware that Ellen had been in the village. It would be a falsehood of enormous proportions to claim he had no idea she continued to live within an hour's easy journey of her lover and his cathedral.

Philip had not come face to face with Ellen since the night he watched her flee the churchyard after her scathing insult and bloody attack on Waleran. His role in that escape had never come under question and he had never discussed it. Not even with Tom.

In the days immediately following, he lived with a dreaded certainty that Waleran would find her and put her to death before he could intervene a second time. But events of greater significance had claimed the churchman's attention, apparently, and the Bishop appeared to have forgotten the incident entirely.

Over time, the good Prior had come to believe God was protecting Ellen for some purpose of His own — perhaps to give her every opportunity to come into His kingdom and yield herself to His service.

In his moments of deepest honesty, the Prior admitted he was glad she had kept to her safe haven instead of fleeing the country. Her presence nearby guaranteed Tom Builder's future with regard to the construction of the cathedral. And it kept Jack within the realm of Philip's influence.

If only she had not chosen yesterday to leave her sanctuary and enter his.

"She must, of course, be punished. I have prayerfully considered this and I believe our merciful God is willing to give her the opportunity to recant her heresies and apostasies, but He has laid it heavily on my heart that she must suffer for the contempt with which she conducted herself at her trial," Waleran said as he left off his pacing. He lowered his face to eye level with Philip and braced himself, with hands spread wide, across the table. He thus forced the Prior to meet his gaze.

"And there is, too, the matter of her attack upon me. Had it been a private assault, and had she sought my forgiveness, I would have granted it gladly, but there were witnesses who still recall her shameful and unrepented behavior. They know, but for the grace of God, she might have killed me with that knife thrust. They saw her spill my blood. They know what is required in turn."

Philip's heart pounded so painfully in his chest, he was certain Waleran must hear it, must see the telltale rise and fall of his chest, even beneath his simple garments. He could not bring himself to speak. He could not break the Bishop's cold gaze.

"I — I — that is, surely …" he stuttered finally. "As terrible as it was, surely it was not a crime worthy of her death," he was able to protest at last on a desperate whisper.

"And I have just said as much, my good Prior. God does not demand her death. But His word tells us that when blood is shed in violence, blood must be shed in return," the Bishop intoned piously.

Philip was inclined to protest the interpretation but thought better of it, realizing it brought the discussion back to the place where Ellen's life hung in the balance.

"Then I am afraid I don't understand your meaning, your Eminence," he said simply.

"It is this. The woman must suffer — she must suffer terrible and long-lasting pain. Blood must be shed for her crimes. I imagine a taste of the whip — let us say at least 12 blows laid on with a strong hand — should draw the life force to the surface and allow it to flow down in sufficient quantity to purge her sins. It must be done publicly, of course, to shame her and to provide instruction for others. And the sentence must be carried out while the sinner is bared so there is a guarantee of scarring on body, mind and soul to remind her in the future."

The Bishop's eyes gleamed and Philip was sickened by what he saw there before the prelate spun away from him and resumed his pacing.

"She must not die, but she must assuredly wish for death," Waleran said as he rubbed his hands together in an unconscious gesture of excitement. "Write this order now, Prior. And see to its execution. I want that woman in the church yard to pay for her sins tomorrow morning as soon as prayers are over."

Philip reached hesitantly for writing equipment and grasped the quill with trembling fingers.

"The sinner shall be presented for public chastisement on the 18th day of this month in this Lord's Year. The sentence for the attack upon the Bishop in his body and the affront to his moral stance shall consist of not fewer than 12 sound blows, well laid on with a braided lash until blood shall flow freely, on the bare back. The sinner shall remain on public exhibition until the hour of vespers," Waleran intoned grimly. "Post it. Have it cried. And Prior …" he turned toward his subordinate and fixed him with a black stare, "… make sure she is there. I have men ready to help you."

...


	3. Chapter 3

Tom had awakened from a sleep filled with haunting images well before the sun rose. Ellen's head was cradled in his lap where he half reclined on the cold floor. He lay precariously balanced against a rough-textured bag filled with rags destined to be stripped into bandages when one of the good brothers had the time and inclination. The builder shifted his aching legs and his woman stirred and moaned softly.

"Ellen, love, listen to me," he whispered. "It will be time for prayers soon. I want you to stay here quietly. I'm going to find us water and something to eat and I'll be back before they come. Swear to me you will not move from this place."

She sat up slowly, scarcely able to make out his form in the dark.

"I need to go outside," she answered.

It was a moment before he understood her meaning. Then he felt a blush rise and realized the foolishness of his reaction to her frankness, given their circumstances.

"We can't risk it again. If someone sees me, they'll think I couldn't sleep and was making one of my usual night walks around the church. They're used to my peculiar ways. But, for all we know, the whole village is looking for you. Heed me well, Ellen," he said reaching for her face in the darkness. "I cannot force you to stay here. But if you leave and they find you, you put Jack at risk."

He heard her sharp intake of breath.

"I'll wait for you," she promised finally.

"I'll bring back a pot," he muttered, still embarrassed and relieved she could not see his face.

Ellen laughed softly and he knew she was fully aware of his discomfiture. "Make it a big one," she couldn't resist adding.

...

Tom felt no eyes upon him as he slipped from the church and made his way to the home he shared with their children; nevertheless, he did his best to mimic other night-time roamings the villagers were accustomed to their master builder making around his project.

Gathering food, water and a pot that could be spared, all without waking the children, was a trickier business. He thought of searching for extra clothing but knew he could not explain himself if someone caught sight of him leaving the home again burdened down with too many items.

Instead, he placed the food and liquid in their containers within the rusty pot, clasped it under one arm and slung a frayed blanket around his shoulders to conceal his burden. Then he slipped into the night again and headed back to the crypt that had been serving as a worship site since the first cathedral burned.

Scarcely had he been able to provide the relief Ellen sought and the privacy he insisted she have before they heard the stirring of many feet moving toward the makeshift sanctuary for prayers.

The two of them curled up on the floor again, pressing their bodies close together beneath the blessed blanket and knowing the darkness would soon be lifting beyond the confines of their little cell. They were, nevertheless, locked in its blackness as the soft chant began just beyond their hiding place.

For Tom, the sound provided blessed comfort and hope; for Ellen, it was a bitter reminder of days past when she still believed in priestly piety and essential goodness.

...

Although his plan had been to follow Prior Philip and gain his help as soon as possible after prayers, Tom realized if he failed to begin the workday directing his labourers in the usual way, the whole village would soon be alerted to the fact, and it would make it harder than ever to engineer an escape. Far better to go about his regular routine for as long as possible.

So he slipped away from Ellen's embrace minutes after the soft whisk of monks' steps died away as they left off praying in one location and turned toward breaking their fast in another. He made his way to the work site where his masons and helpers would expect to see him and set about doing the mundane chores that defined every morning.

He had not long to wait before the first of the workmen showed up.

It was Jack.

Tom realized it was impossible to know what the boy suspected. Or feared. Or knew.

Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. But it did not matter because others were plodding toward the cathedral's perimeter, depending on Tom for instruction and direction after yesterday's marathon effort, and there was no time to share secrets.

"Your mother is well," he whispered quietly to his stepson, undercover of sending him off to show a new apprentice how to measure for a cutting mark.

Jack's quiet stare revealed nothing.

Alfred seemed slightly the worse for wear as he approached his father, and Tom imagined he had celebrated rather too heartily the night before, but he had neither the time nor the inclination to point out the natural consequences of his son's poor decisions.

When Martha came, carrying two apples, some cheese and a large hunk of bread smeared with honey, along with a flagon of fresh water, he resisted the impulse to hug her to him. Instead, he smiled and then ducked his head and brushed his forearm across his face in a gesture designed to clear away the stone dust. It was as good a subterfuge as any, lest she see his mouth tremble with emotion.

But it was the sight of baby Jonathan, peeking out of the sling his "mother," Johnny, used to carry him about the church yard, that almost broke Tom.

If his plan went well and he and Ellen escaped, he hoped to send for Jack and Alfred and Martha soon, uniting them as a family in France or, perhaps, Spain — wherever they could find work.

But Jonathan, he knew, he would never see again once he committed himself to Ellen's safety.

He longed to hold his son just once more, longed to smell the baby's sweet scent and feel the child's miniature fingers tug at his beard.

He had lost that privilege, he reminded himself, when he walked away from Agnes' grave alone. Now he could only be grateful his son would grow up well-tended and well-loved. It was, he knew, a greater blessing than many children could claim.

Still, the loss was another scar on his heart.

…

One small trouble after another held him at the building site throughout the morning and his level of anxiety to reach the Prior increased to the point that he feared he might make some foolish mistake and give everything away before the workmen.

The sight of the black-robed Bishop striding out of the priory as the sun climbed well above the horizon set his heart hammering in his chest and Tom found he could scarcely breathe. He was certain Waleran had seen him with Ellen on more than one occasion in the past, but he had no way of knowing if he was aware of the true and abiding nature of their relationship or if the Bishop knew the role he had played in her first escape.

As the prelate drew even with the work site, however, he slowed and fixed his eyes on Tom. Their glances locked and suddenly there was no longer any doubt about the extent of the churchman's knowledge. He knew — or guessed — all there was to know and he wanted Tom to be aware of that knowledge.

Had Waleran not passed on quickly then, the builder was not certain he could have resisted the impulse to flee to Ellen's side to protect her. But he managed to hold his ground and respond to the questions and comments buzzing around him until he could no longer see the vision in black.

"I must ask the Prior's opinion," he announced as soon as he could trust his voice, and he set his tools aside in their special box. Pray one of his lads took good care of it in his absence, he thought.

He had almost reached the place where Jack was carving at the edge of the building site when he saw Philip emerge from the priory and move toward the posting tree in the village center. Tom came up even with Jack as he watched the good Father raise a sheet against the wood and pound it into place there with two nails.

Philip caught sight of him then — and of Jack, too, it seemed — and he slowly held his hands out toward them, palms turned up in a beseeching gesture that filled Tom with foreboding.

He felt as though the three of them were locked in a silent and terrible tableau of danger, although he could not say precisely what form it would take. His only coherent thought was that it might be too late to claim Philip's help.

Before he could shake off his dread and make a move toward the priest, he heard the sound of the crier's voice echoing across the churchyard.

"Hear ye, hear ye, by order of Bishop Waleran and the authority of the Church, the woman known as Ellen, mother of Jack the stone carver, is ordered to yield to that power and so cleanse herself of her grave misdeeds. The sinner shall be presented for public chastisement on the 18th day of this month in this Lord's Year. The sentence for her attack upon the Bishop in his body and the affront to his moral stance shall consist of not fewer than 12 sound blows, well laid on with a …"

Jack whirled to face Tom, his mouth open in blank astonishment. But his stepfather pushed past the boy and made his way after Prior Philip, who had turned and was hurrying back toward his rooms.

So much was clear now; but so much remained to be explained.

Tom burst into the priest's presence, unannounced.

"Is it a trick? Why is there no death sentence? Is this to lure her out?" he demanded in a rush.

"It is no trick. He cannot alter the sentence unless Ellen gives him good cause, not when he has made it such a public thing. As to why, I cannot say for certain, but he will spare her life, at least for now."

"Dear God, thank you, Sweet Jesus," Tom breathed.

The Prior looked at his friend with pity.

"He will not kill her, Tom, but he will make her beg him for death to free her from the pain. He has made that clear. He will beat her as savagely as he can and still leave her with breath in her body. He wants to humiliate her and break her even before the first stripe is laid on. And he is determined she will shed her blood in payment for his own. If this is reprieve, it is still an ugly and brutal thing, my friend."

"Tell me what he plans … exactly," Tom breathed. "Read me the order."

The Prior repeated the words he had copied and felt the builder recoil as the enormity of the sentence became real to him.

There was a long and terrible silence. Philip could not bring himself to look on Tom's misery.

"I came," the builder said finally, "to seek your help in getting Ellen far away from this place. I was sure Waleran would burn her. But he already knows she is here, doesn't he? I could see it in his face when he passed me."

"Yes, he knows. And he believes I am privy to the secret of where she hides. He has commanded me to present her tomorrow morning at sun up. I don't know exactly how we can get her safely away."

"We cannot," Tom said with finality. "It is time to pay the price. Let me take her to my house now and we will be where he has ordered in the morning. Just give us this time, Father. I beg you."

"Can you speak for her? What will you do if she says she cannot bear it? Ellen is a strong woman, but you know what a whip can do. She may never recover."

"Tell me this, Prior, will Waleran stay true to his order? Will she be safe when it has been satisfied?"

"I believe she will. He has used scripture to make his case and I do not think even Waleran will want to tempt God. Keep in mind that there are still king's men here, and Waleran knows he walks a fine line, so he will not want her death on his hands until he can be certain what the royal will is … and today, who can say which lips will express that will tomorrow. It is to Waleran's advantage to punish her but to show mercy at the same time. It allows him room to maneuver in the future."

Tom nodded. "Read me the order once more."

He listened gravely.

"God will spare Ellen, just as He spared her before. Will you be on His side again?" he demanded after Philip had finished.

The Prior stared at his friend in confusion. "I try always to be on God's side, Tom. That is my life's calling. I do not know what you want of me in this instance, but if it is within God's will, you know I will stand with you no matter what the cost."

"It will be clear when the time comes," Tom said simply and went to take Ellen home.

…

"You heard?" he asked when he held her in his arms again.

"How could I help it? There is no one in the village who could not hear. What is Waleran thinking? Why would he do this?"

"I can't be sure, but I think he is afraid of you … of what you know … yet he fears killing you even more right now. It must be his way of reminding you who holds the power. He believes he can control you through pain and terror. The beating will be his first move. If he still thinks he has reason to fear you, he will make the stakes higher next time."

"Jack," she breathed. "Or you. He'll try to hurt me first and if I still threaten him, he'll hurt those I love. Tom, I have to go."

"It's too late for that. He knows you are here. He probably knows exactly where by now. If we try to escape together, it will provide an excuse he can use to kill us and avoid the blame. If you go alone, he will probably do the same and then spend his rage on whoever is left here. He's sending a message, Ellen, and he won't rest until he's sure you have received it and will heed it."

He knew the moment she made her decision. He felt her body shift in his arms and grow rigid with resolve.

"'I'm sorry I have brought you to this," she said quietly. "I will not shame you tomorrow, but I need you to hold me until then."

…


	4. Chapter 4

There were moments, even in the shadow of the terrible thing to come, when they were a family at peace with each other in Tom's humble home that evening. He plied her with drink, hopeful that she would sleep peacefully through the night, but she resisted his efforts.

"I want to lie awake in your arms until we are alone as they sleep," she said with a nod of her head toward their children. "And then I want you to love me in this house. I want that memory to take with me tomorrow, Tom Builder," she said calmly.

Then she directed him in laying out bandages and instructed him how to bathe her lacerated skin when it was over.

"There is a salve in the cave. Jack knows the one. Send him for it. It will help,' she said simply.

And he marveled at her strength.

…

Ellen slept, finally, in his arms and he allowed himself to believe that when tomorrow was over, she would be able to remain there for the rest of their lives.

As for Tom, he spent most of his night in prayer, thinking about what was to come, trying not to think about what was to come. He prayed for strength to carry through an escape for Ellen, while Philip, alone in his room between services, prayed for some method of comfort he might offer to help Tom's woman face the trial.

Tom heard the brothers as they entered the worship site for matins and he heard them again at the time of morning prayer. It was at that point that he knew they dared not delay any longer.

He kissed Ellen awake and simply held her quietly for a few moments.

"Do you believe me when I tell you I will take care of you?" he asked finally.

She did not respond for a moment.

"I believe you will do everything a man can do. That is all I can ask and I have no right to even that. I brought my troubles on myself. But you are just one man against a Bishop, Tom," she said. "What can you do?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. But God can," he said with such quiet confidence that even she could not find it in her heart to argue against his faith.

...

Tom would have insisted their children stay safe inside the house that day, but Waleran's order carried with it the implicit command that the village witness Ellen's ordeal. He knew the prelate would have a sharp eye out for those closest to them — the ones most likely to suffer, as well. Better to have them there already than to have Waleran send for them. Who knew how his anger might play itself out in such circumstances?

The family emerged from the house just as Prior Philip came from the chapel site. He hurried toward them and reached for Ellen's hands — a movement entirely out of character and gravely out of order, but one he did not think twice about.

"Will you let me pray for you?" he asked, blinking back tears of pity.

But Ellen shook her head. "You put yourself at risk here. Pray when they bind me." And she turned toward the center of the village, where a crowd was already starting to gather.

Tom moved to put his arm around her and they walked purposefully toward the punishment site. Behind him, the builder heard Martha begin to sob and knew Prior Philip would turn his attention to comforting her.

There was a buzz of excited conversation as they entered the wide circle of villagers. Punishment of this nature was not handed out every day — particularly not to a woman. Had Waleran not commanded their presence, most would have been there anyway. Ellen's face was familiar to many of them, but she had no personal connection, so it was possible to look on her condition with a strange level of excitement rather than concern or commiseration.

What had previously been hidden from their view came into sharp focus as Tom and Ellen moved within the shelter of the group. Two of Waleran's men were tying stout bindings of leather to the four legs of an X-shaped wooden upright. The Bishop himself stood near the structure, speaking to a third servant. From his hand trailed a braided leather whip. Ellen could not contain the shudder that passed over her body as she caught sight of the instrument of her punishment.

As though sensing her reaction, Waleran turned and moved toward them with menace in every step. He stopped a short distance away and waited until Prior Philip had taken his place on Ellen's other side and her son and Tom's children were spread out behind her.

The hum of the crowd died down as he spoke.

"I remind you, woman, that you have no right to speak here. Silence is your only appeal for mercy. Be assured you can only add to your punishment with anything you say," he declared with authority. The message was clear and Ellen forced herself to lower her eyes and bow her head slightly in submission. However, Waleran wanted to be certain she would not yield to temptation. He raised the hand holding the braided whip and allowed its length to play out on the ground. Having commanded his victim's attention, he held out his other hand and enjoyed the satisfaction of having his servant place the handle of a second, shorter coil in his palm. This one, too, he raised toward Ellen.

"If you cannot hold you tongue, woman, be certain I will help you. While you will find a dozen lashes with the braided lady most 'uncomfortable,' I can assure you, you will discover the kiss of her mate is virtually impossible to bear."

Many in the crowd realized, at almost the same time Ellen became aware, that the strips of leather bound in the second whip had been unbraided for the space of a dozen inches and each tip had been imbedded with a small shard of stone. The instrument of torture was guaranteed not only to rip the skin to shreds but to tear the underlying muscle and connective tissue and, perhaps, even chip or break bone.

Prior Philip had never seen such a piece before, but he knew it matched the description of the scourge used upon the Christ. Almost to perfection.

Ellen's knees threatened to give way, but Tom's strong arm held her secure and she reminded herself that she could buy her freedom from the more serious torture with something as simple as her silence. Whatever such an effort cost her spirit, it was one she knew she would pay — so long as she did not have to look at Waleran's gloating face.

She kept her eyes turned down in an evasive gesture she prayed he would accept as subservience and waited with a sick churning in her stomach. Whatever happened to her here today would be on the lips of the townspeople for months to come. She must not provide them with any more "amusement" or fodder for their gossip than she could help. Her dignity was the only weapon she possessed and she vowed Waleran would not take it from her, no matter what he did.

"Read the sentence so there will be no misunderstanding of what is to take place here today," Waleran ordered brusquely and another servant shoved the command he had penned the day before into Prior Philip's hand. He read it in a voice that trembled slightly, but he made sure he read it loud enough to be heard by everyone in the crowd. He did not think he could have done it a second time if the Bishop had been able to claim the first attempt was not a thorough one.

"The necessity for severity is clear," Waleran said. "Scripture tells us without the shedding of blood there can be no forgiveness of sin. Let us begin, then. Seize and bind her and then strip her so that her shame may be clear to all," he ordered with a gesture to the guards.

Philip bit his tongue to force back a bitter refutation of Waleran's blatant misapplication of holy scripture, sickened by his superior's arrogance and sensuality disguised as piety.

As for Ellen, she felt Tom's arm slip from her shoulders and knew the time had come. She hesitated a moment, gathering her courage on a deep breath.

And she heard Tom speak.

"Take me."

...


	5. Chapter 5

Ellen's head jerked up and she saw that he had moved to stand directly in front of her, shielding her from Waleran's sight. Philip was moving forward as well, his hand thrown out toward the Bishop in a silent plea.

"What is this?" Waleran demanded while the crowd buzzed again.

"Your order, your Grace, calls for punishment, for the shedding of blood, just as you have reminded us. But it does not say whose blood. I offer my own — freely and with complete submission to your authority to command it. And I rely on your wisdom, mercy and Christian charity to accept me as a sacrifice for this woman's sin. I confess myself a sinner and seize this opportunity to cleanse my own soul by welcoming this punishment on her behalf. Holy scripture commands us pitiful sinners to offer our bodies as a living sacrifice, and that is what I am willing to do."

Ellen came alive then and threw herself toward Tom, but Jack and Alfred moved as quickly as she did and grasped her arms between them, not fully understanding what was taking place but realizing — as one — that Ellen must not be allowed to interfere. They dragged her back and Jack covered her mouth with a firm hand and bent to whisper in her ear as she struggled against them.

"You can only hurt him and yourself. Be quiet!"

Philip's mind whirled, unable to grasp the turn of events for a moment, but then Tom's ploy became clear to him. He remembered the builder's soul-searing query: "Will you be on God's side?"

And suddenly it was all clear, just as his Godly friend had assured him it would be. Scripture was precisely what was needed to overcome the Bishop's plans for Ellen.

"St. Paul himself speaks of making an acceptable sacrifice, pleasing to God," he pronounced with all the grave piety he could muster. "Surely these good people will never again have such opportunity to observe more humble obedience to that command. It is a moment none of us will ever forget, and your gracious acceptance will serve as a reminder to all God's people of the mercy He so willingly shows to sinners," the prior intoned toward Waleran and prayed God would forgive his own slight interpretive twist.

The Bishop's instincts thrummed and he knew he had been bested. The crowd's will had shifted entirely and he could not see any way to win them back to himself. If he insisted upon punishing Ellen, they might well turn on him with violence and, if not that, at least with such contempt that it might reach the ears of the king. Only by a show of mercy could he hold their favor now.

But that mercy would extend only to Ellen's body. He would make certain her heart suffered torment and he knew he could do so without losing the support of the crowd if he handled it skillfully. He longed to see her bloody and broken, but he could accept her bowed down and cowed, and that is exactly where he would have her before he was finished, he thought with fresh vengeance.

"Very well, my son," he said, drawing himself up and putting on his holiest face. "God accepts your sacrifice. Prepare him," he ordered and the guards stepped toward Tom, who was calmly unbuckling the broad strap at his waist and shrugging off his outer split woolen tunic into Philip's outstretched arms. Before they could seize him, he gathered the hem of his longer inner tunic and pulled that garment over this head, leaving his torso bare to the early morning coolness and the lower half of his body revealed in stark outline by the snug braies he wore. More than one woman in the crowd experienced the sinful warmth of lust within her body as she gazed at his male beauty.

There was no need for him to struggle against the guards; he simply began to move toward the crossed beams as they reached for him, and so they fell in behind as he walked the dozen fateful steps and came to a halt at the place of atonement. One of the guards shoved him forward then so that his chest rested at the spot where the wooden pieces intersected. They dragged his hands above his head and used the leather strips to secure his wrists to the arms of the frame. Then they knelt and grasped his legs. He yielded to the guard on the left, shifting slightly to his right and allowing the man to pull his foot to the side and bind his ankle to the wood. Leaning in the opposite direction, then, he co-operated as best he could in the effort to leave him fully exposed and completely helpless.

"Should we strip him, your Eminence?" one of the guards asked.

"Do not trouble yourselves. That will be taken care of without effort on your part," Waleran assured the man.

"You have offered yourself as a dumb sheep to bear this woman's punishment of 12 lashes. But you proclaim yourself a sinner, at the same time, Tom Builder," the Bishop went on, somewhere behind him. "So add 12 more and lay them on well," he commanded the guard who was snaking the tail of the leather through the dust at his feet.

Tom felt the breath leave his body at the order and was absurdly grateful for the bindings that held him upright. He faced the fact, grimly, that if he did not die on this crude punishment platform, he might never again be fit to care for his family. Or love a wife.

"Help me, sweet Jesus," he prayed silently and fought the impulse to resist the lash, remembering dimly that the clenching of muscles was rumored to serve only to magnify the pain.

There was a moment of such intense silence Tom thought he heard his own heart beat, and then he was aware of a sound like a stirring of the air by the flight of many small insects, followed immediately by a strangely dulled snap of leather against a solid surface. A split second later, a blazing pain loosed itself on a diagonal across his back from his right shoulder to his waist and he jerked involuntarily against the ties binding his wrists.

"One." Waleran intoned.

The second lashing fell slightly lower and the tip of the whip curled beneath his arm pit and bit into his chest. He drew his breath in on a hiss and fought back a cry.

"Two."

The Bishop's man twisted his body slightly as he brought the whip down again and made the lash chart an entirely new path, this time awakening the nerves from Tom's waist, across his buttocks and down his left thigh. The builder did not know if the moan of agony was contained behind his clenched teeth or if it escaped to the crowd. It no longer seemed important, at any rate.

"Three."

There was a brief pause, long enough for the intensity of each stripe to reach its full potential. The purpose was to allow the flogger to change his position, so that when he uncoiled the punishing snake again, its bite came first across Tom's left shoulder and then crossed two of the original angry raised weals on his back. A thread of blood appeared at the intersections. Two more lashings were patterned in reverse of the second and third stripes and Tom's wounds began to weep red tears. A howl of pure animal pain was ripped from his throat and scarcely anyone heard Waleran's count of the sixth mark.

Because of the way Alfred and Jack held her between them behind Waleran's back, Ellen could not see her beloved, but when she heard his cry, no power on earth could have held her. She tore loose from her gentle captors and hurled herself forward, intent only on reaching Tom. Philip made a wild grab for her and managed to restrain her long enough for Waleran to turn and gaze into her eyes with feigned sympathy. That look stopped her.

"It is no easy thing to be a sacrificial lamb. He must value you highly," the Bishop suggested. "I wonder, though … will he consider it worth the trouble in the end? Because we are only beginning, dear lady."

"I beg you. Spare him," she pleaded, dropping to her knees at the prelate's feet. "He didn't know what he was doing. He is innocent."

"Ah, an innocent lamb, is he? But there was only one of those. Surely you do not think to add blasphemy to the list of sins for which he must bear your punishment."

"Please, please, whatever you want…" she cried.

"What I want? Why, this has nothing to do with what I want. This is about the price sin demands. Your sin. He screams for you."

Waleran raised his eyes from Ellen's weeping, huddled form at his feet to Philip's grief-contorted face.

"The least she can do, under the circumstances, is earn him some mercy with her prayers. Can you not encourage her to pray for her beloved, Prior?" he demanded.

Barely able to control his own emotion, Philip bent to raise Ellen to her feet and dragged her upright.

"Take her closer so she can fully appreciate his sacrifice," Waleran ordered with a gentle smile and then signaled to the whipper to begin his cruel task again. Two strong men seized her from the Prior's arms and propelled her forward, so close she was barely outside the reach of the whip herself.

Tom knew she was there — nearby — although he could not have said how. He had heard nothing of the previous exchange, lost in a maelstrom of pain and dread as he was, but Waleran's next words penetrated his mind.

"I would not want to think your strength is waning, my good fellow, but that last attempt seemed to lack something in intensity. Are you able to do the job?" he inquired with feigned concern of the man whose task it was to torture the builder.

In answer the fellow took a step closer to Tom's sagging body and lashed out with such power that the whip wound itself completely around his target, just above the waist, and hugged her lover tight for what seemed an eternity to Ellen as she fought to escape captors who had no intention of letting her go.

Tom's head, which had fallen forward during his brief respite, came up and back and he screamed his agony to the heavens.

"Seven."

The next three stripes were painted vertically down the length of his body on each side of a shoulder blade and atop his spinal cord. What clothing he had been allowed to keep on hung from his body in strips. Trails of blood meandered down his broad back, splattered into irregular shapes in places where the brutal lash crossed their paths. Whatever dignity had been his when the ordeal began was long since gone. Had he not been secured by the tight leather bindings, he would have fallen to the ground, because his legs could no longer support him. He was naked, for all intents and purposes, and his cries had become one long scream of agony directed toward the sky.

Ellen felt hot liquid rise in her throat and could not swallow it back. The bile burst from her mouth and streamed down her gown. She gagged. She sobbed. She begged.

He would die. Not even half way through and his body was already cut to ribbons. In her worst nightmares of the ordeal, she had never imagined it could be this bad.

"Is this your answer, Lord?" Philip demanded in his heart as he witnessed Tom's agony. "I thought You would deliver him. I prayed for mercy. He gave himself up for Ellen and now You are giving up on him. Why, Lord, why?"

Martha sobbed and buried her face in Jack's side, where he held her tight.

"That could have been my mother," he thought as he watched Tom's suffering through a haze. "He did this for her. I could never …"

"It should have been Ellen," Alfred told himself in despair. "She deserves it. My da's done nothing wrong. It's all her …" he thought, working himself up to a sick rage. But a voice deep inside his heart whispered a truth he could not ignore. "This is your doing. You accused with a lie and this is where it has led. Those are your lashes your father takes."

The final two of the first 12 came hard and so fast on top of each other that Waleran was forced to count them together, to his great displeasure. Only the clear evidence that Tom's suffering had reached a climax, with yet 12 more to go, prevented the Bishop from ordering them repeated. Instead, once the scream had died away and all that played out on the clear morning air was an agonized moan, he suggested that the punisher yield the whip to a fresh hand who was prepared to see the job through as it should be done.

"The penitent pays for his own self-confessed sins henceforth," Waleran reminded the crowd.

Tom slumped forward over the place where the beams intersected, the bindings on his wrists stretched by the powerful contortions of his tortured limbs. He panted like a savagely beaten animal and tried to find something to focus on other than the pain that went so far beyond anything he had ever experienced he could not have imagined it.

"Forgive me, God. I tried …" he cried in his heart. "Please …"

The new torturer snapped the whip at no particular target, testing its weight, its reach, its play. He needed to know his tool well, since he was determined to earn no criticism from the Bishop. Satisfied that he could manage the weapon with maximum success, he drew back the lash and stepped into the release, ripping open an inch-wide ribbon of bloody flesh across Tom's back.

The builder heard the whip's familiar crack and felt a strange pressure just under his shoulder blades and warm wetness running down his back, but the searing pain did not bite this time. Indeed, the fire that burned virtually inch of his flesh seemed to be dying out. He made no cry, although his body shuddered under the whip's impact.

Waleran frowned but could not negate the count. The lasher redoubled his efforts. The results were the same. Tom's body trembled violently as it was embraced barbarically, and his flesh shuddered and yielded fresh streams of bloody fluid when the whip was withdrawn, but he was silent.

"He has doubtless swooned away, being faint of heart," Waleran suggested. "Revive him."

One of the Bishop's retinue stepped forward with a bucket of salt water and threw it over the torn and bleeding body. Tom struggled to stand erect but lost the battle, falling back against the support of the beams and suspended by his lashed arms. The water was strangely refreshing and somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, the broken man knew this should not have been so — knew it should have added to his pain instead.

While the water had washed away some of the blood, a fresh supply was rapidly taking its place when the next blow fell. It was a blow that was again met with silence from the victim.

Suddenly, Tom saw a familiar face, although he had registered no other awareness of people in the crowd since the ordeal began. He realized with surprise that it was Agnes. She smiled at him. She hugged a little girl against her skirts and knelt to direct the child's attention to her father. "Matilda, my love, my darling," he whispered and the babe reached out to him with a smile that filled his heart with joy.

From a great distance, he heard a voice. "Eighteen."

The voice saddened Agnes. She disappeared, taking the child with her.

Tom knew nothing else.

...


	6. Chapter 6

Waleran and all his servants were gone when Tom returned to his family.

They had been gone two days.

When the builder opened his eyes for the first time, it was Ellen's face he saw, her eyes closed in exhausted slumber, her cheekbones standing out sharply in a face that seemed to have aged many years.

He lay quietly, facedown, for a moment, taking in his surroundings, orienting himself and realizing he lay in his own bed, with Ellen stretched out beside him. He tried to turn his head, but the effort was beyond his physical strength and the pain that lanced through him brought a groan to his lips.

Ellen's eyes flew open.

She simply looked at him a moment and then tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

"Don't try to move," she whispered, pushing herself up on one arm.

"I think I could not, even if you allowed it," he said and attempted to smile at her, but even that movement was too harsh to endure.

"You must lie still. Your wounds can still break open."

"Wounds?" he frowned in puzzlement.

"You don't remember? Then that's a mercy. You took my punishment. And what Waleran added to it as well. Twenty-four lashes. I did not think you would survive it," she said, bowing her head and wiping her eyes.

"But I did."

She nodded, unable to speak as she recalled the horror of that day, of the hellish torture and the bearing of his once-beautiful but now pitiful, torn body home. She had nursed him ceaselessly since then, applying every method she knew and living in terror that he would never open his eyes again. Or that when he did open them, he would be so changed she would know his body had survived by his spirit had died. She feared, too, that he might turn from her completely if he came back to the world in even a shadow of the hellish torment he had endured and remembered its cause. She was prepared to live with that rejection, however, if he could simply be restored to life as her precious Tom.

"I do remember something," he said finally. "I remember Matilda. She smiled at me."

"Matilda…" she questioned.

"My baby girl. She died. But she is with her mother now. I saw Agnes, too. They are happy."

"It was a dream, Tom. You've been dreaming while you were far away from me between life and death."

"No. It was no dream," he said, managing to move his arm enough to reach for her face as she sank beside him again. "It was God's answer. Agnes has no hate in her heart for me. And God has forgiven."

"Your God demanded a price too dear for that knowledge, my heart," Ellen whispered. "I thought I had lost you forever."

"I know you don't understand, love," he said through lips so dry he felt they might split apart. "But God demanded nothing. I offered freely the only thing I had to give for you. My life. And he gave it back to me."

Ellen had no answer. She simply wept silent tears and tried to come to terms with the tumult in her soul. She did not understand the God Tom loved with all his heart, but neither could she deny His existence. She saw it mirrored too clearly in Tom's life.

"I need three things," he told her finally with his old sweet smile as he wiped her tears away gently with his thumb. "A long drink of water. A sweet kiss from your lips. And a look at my cathedral."

Tom had, she recognized clearly, been returned to her. Completely intact in mind, body and soul.

She could not yet hold him in her arms without causing him new pain and threatening his wounds. But from that moment forward, she held him more firmly than ever in a broken and bleeding heart that was being slowly healed by his sacrifice.


End file.
